Monday, May 11, 2009

For Mother's Day this year, my mom had one request: that we go for the brunch buffet at an Indian Restaurant in Darien that has a serious following. Indian is not something I typically go for (we're talking MAYBE once a year) so I was rather intrigued and looking forward to filling my plate with a number of mysterious dishes and tasting my way through the cuisine. However, 2:45 rolled around and we discovered that brunch was served until 3:00.

Oops.

Plan B. Something French. Maybe a warm goat cheese salad? A glass of Rosé? And while we all agreed that that would most certainly fit the bill, there seems to be a bizarre and extreme shortage of anything remotely French (or worthwhile) in Fairfield County. So what was the final decision? We'll just have to make something ourselves, of course.

Off to the market we went, three chicks getting to take advantage of the fabulous weather and riding through town with the top down on my mom's new toy, her Volkswagen Beetle Convertible, wind blowing through our hair (read: ridiculous knots), and heat blowing full blast on our feet. Typical.

Once at the market, I had a plan: A grilled pizza topped with zucchini, white onion, dollops of ricotta, and drizzled with a salsa verde. With a salad on the side, we were ready for a light, springy, and admittedly verdant meal. We also picked up a goat, sheep, and cow's milk cheese that had caught our attention (shown below, for $7.99, this was killer. Super stinky, super flavorful; salty and smokey. Delicious.) as well as a loaf of freshly baked ciabatta. Sorry, we couldn't help ourselves.

Once home, the grill was fired up and I stretched out a piece of store-bought pizza dough till it resembled a somewhat round shape. I rubbed it with olive oil and slapped it on the grill. After about three or four minutes, I flipped it and got ready to throw on my toppings. First came a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese, quickly thereafter came the zucchini ribbons and thinly sliced white onion. I closed the grill so that the heat could get trapped inside, and gently begin to break down the veggies.

After about 5 minutes, I took the pizza off and brought it inside to receive its finishing touches. Dollops of fresh ricotta cheese were joined by a generous drizzle of salsa verde. With a salad of baby arugula and field greens quickly dressed with a balsamic vinaigrette, dinner? Done.Throw in a bottle of Cannonball Cabernet Sauvignon (You must find this wine. Heck, I must find this wine somewhere in the city. Ridiculously affordable. Incredibly delicious.) and you've got a scrumptious spread that was whipped up in 20 minutes.Then you get to linger for as long as you'd like with Mom. And you know, talk about the power of John Mayer's lyrics and whether or not the back splash tile should go all the way up to the ceiling or not. What? That's not what you talk about with your mom?

1 comment:

LinkWithin

questions? comments? email me!

kiira [dot] leess [at] gmail [dot] com

who i am

When faced with the question of what food means to me, conversation inevitably shifts to my Mor-Mor (Swedish for Grandmother): A phenomenal cook who refused help in the kitchen and didn't believe in recipes. The real deal, if you will.

Mor-Mor had a seriously strong hand with garlic (surprisingly for a Swede) and an innate knack for making anything taste implausibly delicious. There was always a jar of homemade garlic oil in her fridge which found its way drizzled on top of almost everything. Like one of her breakfast treats: homemade bread slathered with garlic oil, a few slices of granny smith apple, and topped with extra sharp cheddar. Into her beloved toaster oven they'd go until the cheese had just melted, lovingly, over the apples. The salty-sweet combination could make your head spin—a beautiful cohesion of flavors and textures from such an unexpected pairing.

And then there were her meatballs. With her homemade tomato sauce made from tomatoes grown in her garden, picked when perfectly plump and warm from the summer sun, a ladle of garlic oil, and tons of parsley (Mor-Mor may or may not have been secretly Italian), they sent eyeballs rolling to the backs of people’s heads. The thought alone of her in that kitchen makes my heart long, once again, for her cooking. For her.

Now when I'm cooking, I finally understand her insistence on navigating the kitchen alone. There's something about getting in there and winding down and having your own personal space to create that’s beyond therapeutic—it’s wholly fulfilling and soul-satisfying.